Additional Information
by AGirloftheSouth
Summary: John becomes jealous and angry at Sherlock.  Is it justified?  Co-authored with ScopesMonkey and cross-posted at her site.
1. Chapter 1

Additional Information

by

ScopesMonkey and AGirloftheSouth

John felt a drop of condensation from the ice pack trail down his ear. He didn't bother to wipe it away - what would be the point? He sighed and looked back up at the officer standing in front of him.

"Mr. Watson," he started and John interrupted him.

"Doctor Watson."

The officer continued to stare at John, "Doctor Watson," he said, thoroughly unimpressed with the change in salutation. "Mr. Humphrey is still being treated for his injuries, so I need to get a statement from you in case he decides to press charges."

"I've already told you. The bloke in the Chelsea jersey, Mr. Humphrey, pushed the bloke in the suit," John paused and the officer supplied the name of Mr. Harrison. John nodded. "Mr. Humphrey pushed Mr. Harrison into me, spilling my pint. I stood up and we hit each other."

The officer continued to stare, pen poised over the little notebook. John was certain that he hadn't actually written anything down yet. The officer shifted his weight from one foot to the other and turned his head to the side. "The other witnesses have said that it was actually you, Mr. Watson, who hit him."

"Yeah," John lifted the ice pack and turned his head so that the officer could see the cut and swelling that he knew must be present on the side of his head. He hadn't actually seen it yet. He hadn't been seen by a doctor yet. "Obviously, I've been hit too. Hence why I said, '_We_ hit each other.' And it's _Doctor_ Watson, _Doctor_."

"There's not need to get testy _Doctor_ Watson. I'm just trying to get an accurate timeline of the events."

"Fucking ridiculous," John said under his breath as he replaced the ice pack. He was unable to contain a wince as the cold, the bruise, and the wound met again. It only took a moment for the ice to work its magic, numbing some of the pain. If he could make the throbbing in his brain stop he might have felt more like a human and less like a giant ass.

"Doctor Watson, you've already had an ASBO…"

"Oh fuck all, get out, now." John pointed at the door but the officer didn't move. "Get out now, I'm done answering your questions. My sister is a solicitor, if you need to ask me any more questions you can speak to her."

"Doctor Watson…"

"GET THE FUCK OUT," he repeated. His voice was too loud, resonating through his head. He groaned and leaned forward. "Get out," he repeated quietly. He didn't look up, but heard the footsteps as the officer headed to the door.

"I'll be in touch," he said and John heard the door close. He didn't care. He just wanted the ache to stop.

He took the ice pack away and looked at it. He didn't remember exactly where it came from, but obviously not from the hospital staff or the paramedics. It was an old towel wrapped around a sandwich bag filled with what must have been ice at some point during the evening. It was soaked through and disgusting but had served its purpose.

John reached around and gently put pressure along his temple. He winced, feeling the cut gingerly, knowing the man must have been wearing a ring. He moved his fingers across the frontal and sphenoid bones easily able to determine that at least they weren't fractured, horribly bruised but not broken. It was the only positive on the day's events.

There was a quiet knock on the door and he rolled his eyes. "Come in," he said, completely expecting it to be the officer again. He was too realistic to believe that it was a doctor yet. It was Friday night and his possible minor concussion hardly rated amid the stabbing victims and alcohol poisonings. The only reason he'd been granted a room was because he was a doctor, some unspoken professional courtesy.

He realised with a sudden moment of panic that it might be Sherlock, but as the door opened he realised just as suddenly that his husband wouldn't have knocked. He looked up to see his sister walk through the door. She was tired and had dressed in haste. She frowned as she let the door close behind her and her face contorted as her eyes focused on the side of his face.

"Oh god, John," she closed the distance and settled a hand on one of his knees. "What the hell happened?"


	2. Chapter 2

John couldn't help the wry chuckle that slipped past his lips, followed by a groan when the laughter made his pounding head hurt even more. Harry moved his hand and the ice pack away from his face so she could get a good look at him. He sighed and tilted his head slightly, refusing to meet her eyes.

How many times had they done this, only the other way around? How many nights had been called to some A&E to pick up his drunk sister and take her home?

Except he wasn't drunk. He'd barely gone through a quarter of his pint when that idiot – Humphrey – had pushed Harrison into him. He saw Harry wrinkle her nose though, her expression alarmed.

"I'm wearing it," John sighed. "I'm not drunk." She glanced at his shirt, which was mostly dry now, although it felt crusty and stale against his skin.

"John, what the hell happened?" she repeated. "Where's Sherlock?"

At his husband's name, John stiffened, then hissed when the sudden tensing of his muscles throbbed across his aching skull. He groaned again and put the ice pack back against his temple.

"This is completely melted," Harry said. "There's got to be something better in here." She pulled away from him and began rummaging through the cabinets in the room. John wondered why he hadn't thought of checking himself. After a few minutes, she came up with two disposable cold packs. She snapped one and passed it to him, taking the bag of ice and the towel and binning them.

"Thanks," John muttered. Harry nodded and settled onto the exam bed next to him, tucking her hands under her legs and regarding him carefully.

"Sherlock?" she prompted.

"I don't know," John muttered. Harry's lips depressed into a frown.

"John," she said warningly but he ignored it. "John, he's called me forty-eight times."

At this, John raised his head in surprise. Harry shifted and withdrew her phone from her handbag, scrolling through a number of missed calls and text messages alerts.

"That's forty-eight times since you called me and asked me to come here. You have your phone off so he can't trace you, don't you? That's why you used the payphone."

John groaned again and made to reach for hers but Harry held it away.

"If you leave yours on, he'll follow you here," he moaned.

"Well maybe he should," Harry replied. "He _is_ your husband, little brother. Why did you call me instead of him? What happened?"

John shook his head gingerly.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Harry," he said, keeping his voice soft because even speaking at a normal volume made his head swim. He wished they'd given him some painkillers; the ice was helping, but it wasn't enough.

As if reading his mind, Harry withdrew a small bottle from her handbag. She tapped two pills into his palm and then fetched him some water in a small paper cup. John down the tablets gratefully and then shifted so he could lie down, his legs curled up enough to leave room for her.

"I know you don't want to talk about it," she said and John sighed in relief. "But you were in a fight in a pub, you reek of beer even if you didn't drink it, you called me to come get you instead of Sherlock and you told me not to tell him where you were. _And_ the hospital won't release you without someone to ensure that you get home. So, unless you want to stay here, you'd better tell me. Since Sherlock is probably following my phone and on his way, I suggest you hurry. We're not going anywhere until I know what happened."


	3. Chapter 3

John looked at his watch, frowned, and rubbed his hand over his face. He looked around the small restaurant again just to make sure he hadn't missed him. It was stupid, because even if he'd missed Sherlock, Sherlock would not have missed him. Confirming that his husband wasn't sitting at another table waiting for him, he took another sip of the wine. He'd ordered the bottle – a very expensive bottle – and he'd had two sips.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and verified the time. His watch wasn't wrong, the clock on the wall by the maître d' wasn't wrong, Sherlock was 45 minutes late.

He opened the text program on his phone and sent, "Where are you?" He checked his watch again and grabbed a piece of bread the waitress had brought over. He spread the butter over the slice and ate it.

He checked his watch again. It had been three minutes since he sent the text. He scrolled to Sherlock's name and hit send. He counted the rings and wasn't surprised when after the fourth on the voicemail picked up. It was possible that he'd turned it off, or that somebody had turned it off for him. John knew it was more likely that he was still at Bart's, in the lab, where he had no signal.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you? I'm sitting at a table all by myself." He left the message even though Sherlock never checked them. The phone was tossed down and John reached for another slice of bread. He stopped himself, he wasn't hungry anymore.

"_You've been to Bart's every night for the last 2 weeks." _

"_I am aware of that. Jacob has been able to obtain several corpses and is allowing me access to them." _Jacob, the new lab technician at Bart's, John hated him. Sherlock was fascinated by him, or rather by Jacob's intelligence. John was tired of hearing phrases like, "Jacob's potential" and "his above average deductive abilities."

"_You are usually at Bart's during the day?"_

"_Jacob doesn't work during the day."_

"_But I do and I'm home at night and you aren't anymore."_

Sherlock had stopped buttoning his coat in that moment and sighed in exasperation. His expression softened as John shifted uncomfortably in front of him. _"I believe I could postpone the experiments I have scheduled for Friday evening."_

"_Dinner?"_

"_Certainly." _

John had verified with him again that morning, Sherlock had promised that he'd be at the restaurant at 18:30. John looked at his watch again, 19:23 and still no Sherlock. John rubbed his face again, he couldn't decide whether to be pissed or worried. He did know that he wasn't going to sit and continue to be the recipient of all the looks of pity. He stood, opened his wallet and tossed more money than he cared to think about on the table. He knew they'd put the cork back in the bottle and let him take it home, but he didn't want that. He didn't want the waitress to keep looking at him like the guy who'd been stood up. He put his wallet away and grabbed his phone. He was just reaching for the door when his phone alerted him to a text message. He stopped dead in his tracks and read it.

It didn't take long. It was from Sherlock and it was only 1 word, "Bart's." Fingers tightened around the phone. He pushed through the door and started to pound out a reply with his thumbs. He stopped just before he sent it. He wanted to be pissed off in person.

He held up a hand watched a cab pull up in front of him. "St. Bart's," he said as they pulled back into traffic. He stared down at his phone and the message that he'd typed out. He frowned, deleted it, and turned his phone off. He put it back in his pocket, and began to mentally organize the argument he was going to have with his husband.


	4. Chapter 4

The staff at the morgue were used to seeing him by now and Molly let him in without question. She gave him a quizzical glance at what must have been the angry expression on his face but he ignored it. He had no desire to explain the details of his personal life to her, especially not where it involved Sherlock. He knew she still had a crush on his husband, although right now, John was ready to tell her that she could have him with his blessings.

_After_ he'd finished tearing a strip off of Sherlock.

He remembered the sympathetic looks from the server and the other restaurant patrons. He remembered watching the clock tick away that forty-five minutes of his life he'd never get back. He remembered how much that bottle of wine had cost.

"Everything okay, John?" Molly asked. John set his jaw and took a deep breath to help steady himself.

"Where is he?" he asked instead of answering.

"Um, down the hall in one of the cold rooms, I think. He was with Jacob last time I saw him."

There was a hint of displeasure in her expression and John felt himself stiffen more at both the revelation and her reaction. She had no right to be jealous. Sherlock had nothing to do with her.

And Jacob. Bloody Jacob. John had met the man twice and was sick of him already. He knew what Sherlock was like – he became interested in something or someone until something new and more exciting came along and then he moved on.

Most of the time.

He'd never done that with John and the doctor would admit Sherlock was genuinely fond of Mrs. Hudson and even grudgingly liked Lestrade. That amounted to three people in his entire life with whom he hadn't eventually been bored.

John didn't know how long the tech had worked in the morgue but suddenly, two weeks ago, it had become Jacob, Jacob, Jacob. At first, John hadn't been bothered; he was used to Sherlock's transient fascinations. But then Sherlock had begun spending almost every night here and John had insisted on meeting Jacob. He wished he hadn't.

Jacob was young, tall, dark hair, dark eyed. He had an easy smile that John had seen aimed at Sherlock far more than was warranted, although he'd treated John coolly, almost disinterestedly.

The doctor headed down the hall, aware that Molly was following him, but too annoyed to turn around and tell her back off. And she worked here, he reminded himself. She had every right to walk down the corridor. As he approached the cold room, he could hear Sherlock's voice. It sent a shudder down John's spine and caused a spike of anger at the same time; his husband was here, chatting with some upstart morgue tech when he was meant to have met John for dinner over an hour ago.

John heard Sherlock stop speaking abruptly just as he reached the door and stopped dead. Jacob was standing in front of Sherlock, hands cupping the older man's face, lips locked against John's husband's. Sherlock was still, hands by his side, but his eyes were closed and he had a thoughtful expression on his face. One that John recognised from their own intimate moments when Sherlock was cataloguing and storing a new sensation.

Sherlock pulled away and tilted his head slightly. John stood frozen in the doorway, painfully aware of how hard his heart was hammering in his chest.

"Interesting," the detective said and John felt himself falter at the casual tone, as if Sherlock had just noted some particularly fascinating result. "Although I'd prefer if you did not do that again. Emotional reactions are cumbersome and unnecessary. There is no need to allow them to interfere with our work."

John noted the puzzled and hurt look on Jacob's face and was suddenly aware that Molly was standing beside him, looking almost as shaken as he felt.

"Well," John said in a voice that didn't quite feel like his. "I suppose I'll take my emotional reactions since they're so useless – and I wouldn't want to interrupt."

Jacob looked up, features suddenly bright with anger, but it was Sherlock that John focused on as he turned his head to meet the doctor's gaze, grey eyes wide with shock.


	5. Chapter 5

"I ended up in a pub, ordered a pint, and some bastard decided I should wear it." John stared at the ceiling, deliberately not looking at his sister. The pills she had given him were dulling the pain in his head, but the pain in his chest wasn't going anywhere.

His knees were bent up as he lay on the examination table and he felt Harry's hand rest on one of them.

"John," she said her voice barely above a whisper. Her hand tightened in a comforting gesture and the pain in his chest grew. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and it too began to ache. He opened his mouth and gasped in a breath in hopes of preventing the emotions from taking over. He didn't want to cry in front of Harry - he was afraid he wouldn't stop.

"John," she repeated and he shook his head.

"Don't," he responded. He held his breath, he heard the sympathy. He couldn't handle the sympathy. He wanted anger. He wanted her to be angry and make him angry. Anger wouldn't cause him this physical ache.

"Yes." She hoped off the bed and moved to face him. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the cold sensation in his hand and on his temple. He took a deep breath and turned his head so that he could see her.

His own hazel eyes were looking back at him. There was sympathy in her eyes, but the anger he was so desperate to see was also visible. Her mouth was too tight, tiny wrinkles visible in her upper lip. Their mother had the same wrinkles when she'd been angry.

"You do know that you can't avoid him forever. You'll have to give him a chance to explain." He moved his head across the table, away from her. "I'm not trying to defend him," she clarified. "Trust me on that. You are my _brother. _But he's your husband, you need to hear him out. For Pete's sake he's called me 48 times, imagine how many times he's tried to call you. Imagine how many text messages and voicemails you have."

John shook his head and looked back at the ceiling. His head ached. His whole body ached. "Did you tell him?" He looked at her again. "Did you actually explain it him, tell that you were feeling neglected? That you were jealous? That Jacob had feelings for him?"

John didn't answer, they both knew the he hadn't. "This is Sherlock, right? You are the one who says that he doesn't always get the emotional things. Do you think he knew about this Jacob's feelings beforehand?"

They stared at each other, the silence heavy around them. John looked back towards the ceiling, shaking his head. He didn't think Sherlock knew. In fact, he was certain that if he suspected he would have asked John to confirm it.

John closed his eyes and could see the whole scene so clearly, Sherlock's lips pressed against Jacob's or Jacob's pressed against Sherlock's. It didn't matter which way it happened really. It was the look on Sherlock's face that mattered. The look that John would know anywhere. He always considered it a victory when he made that expression appear on Sherlock's face. It meant he was being interesting, stimulating. It meant he'd done something worth being classified and remembered.

Jacob had caused that look so easily.

John's chest ached again and his stomach turned. Harry placed a hand on his chest and he heard her shifting. He heard a series of musical tones and opened his eyes to see her phone being powered down. His free hand came down and covered hers. She smiled at him. She was still worried, still angry, and still sympathetic, but she wasn't going to push anymore. She was going to shut up and just be his sister.

She tucked the phone back into her pocket and there was another knock at the door. They both looked over as a doctor walked in carrying a tablet and offering them an unusually friendly smile for Friday night at the A&E.

She pulled her hand back. "I'll be outside waiting. You're probably going to need stitches." She reached her hand out and shook hands with the doctor. Then she headed towards the door. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "I have stuff for breakfast, but we'll have to stop for milk. You still take it in your tea and coffee, right?"

The relief passed over him in a wave and he had to swallow passed another lump in his throat. He sat up and gave her a slight nod. She pushed through the door and John watched it close then turned his attention to the doctor in front of him.


	6. Chapter 6

Stitched and bandaged, with instructions to take ibuprofen every four hours, John was discharged into Harry's care. The police officer had come back to see him and Harry had bluntly informed him that unless John was under arrest, any interviews would have to wait.

It felt strange to rely on Harry like this, to see her take charge and be taken seriously. But she helped him into his jacket and wrapped her scarf around his throat, dismissing his protests about its appearance. John followed her out of the hospital, one of her arms wrapped around his waist for support.

They took a cab back to her flat and John slumped onto her sofa gratefully. He lay down with the good side of his face buried in a throw pillow and Harry crouched beside him, sighing and shaking her head.

"You'll have to call him, you know," she said.

"Please don't," John sighed.

"John, I get that you're upset. I'm not arguing your right to be. But is driving him mad with worry going to make things better?"

"I don't want to talk to him, Harry. Not right now. I just want to – I don't know. Sleep."

She sighed again and drummed her fingers on the arm of the couch behind his head.

"You need to eat. And I don't have any clothes you can sleep in."

"This is fine," John muttered.

"A beer-stained and bloody shirt? Hardly. My downstairs neighbour will probably lend me something."

John raised his head, scowling, then wincing when it caused a warning throb of pain to shoot through his temple.

"I really don't want to wear some stranger's clothes."

"Well, his name is Adam Sandford, he's a decent bloke and he's a friend. And I don't exactly have men's clothing. You don't get a say in this either, baby brother. Let me reheat some leftovers for you and I'll go check with him."

John sighed, knowing he'd lost. Harry vanished into the kitchen, then John heard her leaving her flat. She was back a few minutes later with an armful of clothes.

"You can change in my room," she said. John took the bundle and heaved himself to his feet. It turned out that Adam Sandford from downstairs had lent him a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a sweatshirt. He changed, folding his own clothes and putting them aside in a neat pile.

"Here, eat," Harry said when he came back into the living room and John accepted the food reluctantly. He ate without really caring what it was and downed the glass of water Harry had given him. While he was eating, she went into her bedroom and he heard her moving around for a few minutes.

"Good," she said, coming back, eyeing his empty plate approvingly. "Come on, you look like you're going to collapse and you don't need another knock to the head. You can take my bed."

"Harry, no –"

"I'm not giving you a choice, John. I can sleep on the couch, it's a pull out."

"You have work in the morning."

"But I'm not the one with a concussion and stitches and a black eye that will probably be swollen shut by tomorrow. You need a good rest, John. I've slept on my couch before and I don't mind it. That _is_ why I bought it."

John sighed in resignation and Harry helped him stand. He shuffled to the bedroom and looked at the freshly made bed. The urge to crawl in and shut out the day was nearly unbearable. John sat down stiffly as Harry found some pyjamas for herself and collected a few things she apparently thought she'd need.

"Go to bed, John," she said, giving him a gentle, sympathetic smile. He crept under the covers and lay down, his head sinking into the soft down pillows.

"Harry?" he said as she left the room. She glanced back at him, silhouetted against the doorway from the light in the living room. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, John. You know I'm going to call Sherlock, right?"

"Yeah," John sighed.

"Good. I'll take care of it, don't worry. You just get some rest."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock picked up before the first ring had finished. Harry pursed her lips; she'd hoped for a few more seconds to steel herself.

"Is he all right?" the detective demanded immediately. "Where is he?"

There was raw panic in his voice, which he was probably trying to hide and the fact that he couldn't was a good indication of how frantic he was. Harry exhaled silently, keeping herself calm. This wasn't her fight.

"Yes, he's all right," she replied. "And he's at my flat."

"I'm on my way."

"_No_," Harry said forcefully. "You are _not_." She heard the silent hesitation on the other line. She sighed, raking her fingers through her long hair. "Look, Sherlock, I know you've been worried. I would have called you if anything serious had happened."

"Indicating that something has happened and I am unaware of it," he snapped back, his voice cold to mask fear.

She sank onto her pulled out couch, settling against the cushions.

"Sherlock, he's fine. He got caught up in a bit of a row and has a black eye, but he's not seriously injured."

"_What_?" Sherlock spat and Harry sighed again, closing her eyes.

"He didn't start the fight and it had nothing to do with him. He just – kind of got in the way," she explaining, leaving out that someone else had been in the way of John's left hook, which she knew was impressive. She didn't want to go into the details.

"He's asleep," she continued. "And I want him to sleep through the night. He's safe here and you can come see him tomorrow morning."

"I will come now," Sherlock contradicted.

"No you won't," Harry repeated. "Not unless you want me to call the police on you when you get here and have that DI friend of yours arrest you. Sherlock, I get that you're worried, but John's upset and I'm kind of on his side about this one. And he's sleeping. He has a minor concussion; this is what he needs right now. He doesn't need you coming here to argue with him."

"We have nothing to argue about," Sherlock replied coolly. Harry bit her tongue against a retort, swallowing her anger. Fighting with him would be useless and she wasn't sure that both men weren't overreacting. John had a tendency to back away from a confrontation and Sherlock had a tendency to be a drama queen.

"Well you can sort that out when you talk to him. _Tomorrow_."

There was silence on the other end of the line and not the kind that she thought signalled acquiescence.

"Sherlock," Harry warned.

"He is my husband," Sherlock said stiffly.

"And he's my brother. I'm respecting his wishes on this, Sherlock. You should, too." She heard the weary hint in her voice; she didn't want to argue and she was tired. There was more stony silence from her brother-in-law.

"Promise me, Sherlock," Harry insisted. "Promise me you'll go home, get some rest, and wait until morning to come by. I'll make sure to let you in before I go to work. The rest is up to you and John."

More silence.

"Promise me," Harry said forcefully.

"Very well," Sherlock agreed so reluctantly it sounded like the words were being dragged out of him. "I will not come to your flat tonight."

"Thank you," Harry sighed. "You'll both feel better after a good night's sleep. Go home. Get some rest."

There was another stiff, angry silence.

"Good night, Harry," Sherlock said coolly and Harry sighed inwardly.

"Good night, Sherlock. I'll take care of John, I promise."

He rung off and she looked at her darkened phone screen, shaking her head. There were days when she wondered how Sherlock and John managed to stay together when she and Clara hadn't. She was pretty sure her brother and his husband were more like oil and water than she and her ex had ever been.

_Not my problem,_ she told herself and clicked off the lamp beside the couch before snuggling under the covers.

When Harry awoke in the morning, Sherlock was sitting in one of her armchairs, watching her thoughtfully.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" she swore, trying to sit up and scramble backward on the bed at the same time. "_Bloody hell_, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get in?"

"It wasn't that difficult," he replied calmly.

"What – What the bloody hell are you doing breaking into my flat? You promised! You promised you'd wait until this morning before coming over!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, regarding her levelly over steepled fingers. "I lied."


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him. He shut his eyes momentarily and brought up the mental map he kept of Harry's flat. He didn't know why he hadn't deleted the information, but he found that he kept quite a lot of information about Harry. He'd once wondered if it was because he generally liked her or if it was because she was John's only relative. He'd decided it did not matter.

He walked down the small hallway past the kitchen and into the living room. It was a fairly large flat, but only one bedroom so he knew that one of them would be on the couch. Under normal circumstances John would insist that it be him, but he knew without closely examining the figure in the dark that it was not John on the couch. The body was not shaped correctly under the blanket and the breathing was wrong. Every aspect of John's sleeping was burned into Sherlock's memory.

He backed away slowly and went down the other short hallway towards the bedroom. He knew the bathroom was on the left and that it had connecting doors to both the hallway and the bedroom. He'd never been into the bedroom though and was unfamiliar with the layout. He was somewhat concerned that John was sleeping in there. If Harry had been able to convince him to take the bed, then he was either truly exhausted or truly injured. Neither option sat very well with Sherlock.

He put his hand on the door and turned the knob slowly. He was glad that it was quiet and that the door made no noise at all as he pushed it open. Immediately, he recognised the breathing pattern and closed his eyes, letting the warmth and familiarity wash over him. For the first time in the last 6 hours he was calm. He'd been worried - panicked - after John stormed out of Bart's. He'd never seen that look on his husband's face before, the anger, almost hatred, and the pain. It was the look of pain that made Sherlock's chest ache. He hated when John was in pain, any kind of pain.

He took the few steps to the bed and examined his husband's sleeping form. The moon coming through the window provided more than enough light for Sherlock to see him clearly. John was on his back, his head tilted slightly to the side, the uninjured side Sherlock deduced. He could see that John did indeed have a black eye, and it would be swollen. Sherlock didn't think it would be swollen closed though. John had obviously been punched. Sherlock didn't see how John could have been punched and not been directly involved with the pub brawl. Perhaps Harry had just been lying about that.

This was only confirmed by the bruises appearing on John's left knuckles. Clearly he'd punched someone. Sherlock didn't have the whole story and he didn't like that. He needed to know who John had punched and who had punched John. Not knowing was unacceptable.

John had a hand curled in up by his head and Sherlock traced a finger over the wrist and into the palm. The fingers closed reflexively and Sherlock pulled his hand away. He then traced along John's nose, and over his lip to dip below his chin. John's head turned toward the contact and Sherlock was relieved.

John was here and he was safe. That was the most important thing, in fact the only thing that really mattered. Everything else could be explained, Sherlock knew he could make John understand. He knew that he could make John forgive. It was what John did.

Sherlock squatted and rested his chin on the edge of the bed. He watched the sleeping form some more, deliberately matching his breathing to John's. It was something that Sherlock often did when John was asleep and he was not. It helped him to find sleep and ease. It made him feel closer to John.

He was choosing to ignore the fact that John was sleeping in some unknown man's clothes. He assumed that Harry had either borrowed them or that she had had them around the flat. The former was much more likely as he doubted Harry spent much time with males.

He sat there a long time, secretly hoping that John would wake up. He wouldn't push it though. John needed to sleep. He needed to heal.

Sherlock stood and his legs ached from squatting in one position too long but he barely noticed. It was inconsequential. He quietly let himself out of the room and left the door cracked. He needed to be able to hear if there was any drastic change in John's breathing or if there was a nightmare. Upset and violence tended to bring out nightmares.

Sherlock helped himself to a small glass of water, not bothering to rinse the cup afterwards. Then he settled in a chair near Harry's sleeping form. He knew that she'd be awake in a few hours, she had to go to work after all. He could wait here and not disturb John.

John needed his sleep.

* * *

><p>Harry stood on the other side of the pull out couch from him. She was angry. She looked very like John when she was angry.<p>

_Interesting, _he thought as her nostrils flared and she pointed at him. She had been whispering loudly at him but he wasn't paying attention. Her cheeks were turning red, just like John's did when yelled.

"You WILL NOT wake him up." She emphasized her point by jamming her finger in his general direction. He noticed the movement because she had a spot of dried blood on the cuff of the shirt she was sleeping in. He disliked the thought that it might be John's blood.

He nodded and looked at her curiously. "I have no intention of doing anything that will be detrimental to John. I will not wake him. I will be here when he wakes up."

"I told you he was fine," she said to him and he cocked his head to one side, confused.

"He stormed out of Bart's, was involved in some sort of fight at a pub, called you instead of me when he was injured, and slept in your bed last night instead of ours. All of these are indicators that he is anything but fine."

She studied him for a moment and threw her hands up in the air. "Broke into my fucking flat," she said to know one in particular and then looked back to Sherlock.

"I'm taking a shower,_ please_ continue to make yourself at home." She stormed away and Sherlock brought his steepled fingers up until the index fingers were once again resting against his lips.


	9. Chapter 9

It was the ache that woke him, the slow dull ache under his temple. He turned his head carefully, hoping to avoid the nausea. It didn't work. He groaned as he settled on his back and opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. His vision was a little blurry in one eye; he studied it for a second but knew it was because of the swelling. At least it wasn't swollen shut.

He brought his hand up and rubbed along the parts of his face that didn't hurt and then stretched. He smelled funny, or rather the clothes did. Adam Whatever must cook a lot with curry, because John could pick out the faint scent of it.

He sat up, let out another groan as the nausea swept over him, and leaned forward to put his head between his knees. He heard the telltale sound of a pill bottle and was surprised that he wasn't surprised. Of course Sherlock would be here.

"Harry said you were instructed to take these every four hours to help with the swelling, you were asleep for over eight so you are therefore behind."

John looked up and the long fingers and soft palm were right in front of his face. He saw the pills sitting there and could see the glass of water out of the corner of his eye. He reached blindly for both and came up with them successfully. He downed the pills and set the glass on the bedside table. He knew Sherlock was still standing in front of him, he could see a black shoe and a trouser leg. He wasn't going to look up though, he didn't want to see his husband. Right now the only thing that was hurting was his head. He could live with that. He could ignore the rest.

He couldn't.

"How long have you been here?" he asked because he couldn't think of anything else to say and because he suspected that Harry had invited him over. She could be a pain in the ass like that.

Sherlock didn't move as he answered and the words bounced of John. He found Sherlock's voice so familiar and comforting and at the same time it made him ache inside. It made him angry.

"Harry informed me that you were here a little after one in the morning. I allowed sufficient time for you both to fall asleep and I let myself in at around 3:30." John huffed, once again surprised that he wasn't surprised.

"Of course you broke into Harry's flat," he mumbled to himself and shook his head. It hurt so he stopped.

"Naturally. You were here."

John huffed again and stood up. He kept his eyes on the floor the whole time, walking past Sherlock and into the bathroom. He closed and locked the door behind him and flipped the lock on the door that led to the hallway. He didn't allow himself to look into the mirror until he was certain that he wouldn't glance up and see Sherlock. His eye was a deep purple all the way around. And while it wasn't swollen completely shut it wasn't exactly open either.

"Attractive," he mumbled to himself as he turned his head to the side and looked at the stitches. The doctor had done a good job and the cut was smaller than it had felt. He doubted it would leave much of a scar. At least there was that.

He exited the bathroom into the hallway and heard Sherlock head out of the bedroom behind him. He felt a swell of emotions at his husband's footsteps and silent companionship. He allowed himself to feel them all for a moment, just a moment, and then he selected the anger and decided to focus on that.

"I think it's fascinating that you were interested enough in me to break into my sister's flat, but not interested enough to see me for more than an hour a day for the last two weeks. Or not interested enough to meet me for the dinner you'd promised me that you'd come to. Thanks for costing me who knows how much in wine that didn't get drunk and for making me look like an idiot for sitting in a restaurant for an hour."

John headed into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He wasn't particularly hungry but it gave him something to do that wasn't looking at Sherlock and he knew that he needed to eat something.

"I – I forgot about out dinner arrangements. Jacob acquired some rejected influenza vaccine and…"

"Jacob, Jacob, Jacob!" John slammed the door closed and looked up. Sherlock was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed and in the same clothes he'd been wearing yesterday. He looked exhausted and John found some sick satisfaction in that. And he felt ashamed of it.

"Yes, Jacob. I apologise for forgetting dinner. I will happily rectify it by taking you out on a night of your choosing."

John held his hands up in the air. "That's it then. You're sorry you missed dinner. No 'Oh, by the way, Jacob is an excellent kisser, I know because I kissed him. Sorry you saw that.' Jesus, Sherlock."

"I did not kiss Jacob. He kissed me. And I instructed him not to do it aga-"

"I saw you." John banged his hand on the counter. A wave of pain moved up his arm and his temple was throbbing but he ignored both. "I know that look, the one you had on your face. You were enjoying it, studying it, categorising it. You were learning, stimulated. You liked it."

"I did not," Sherlock replied. John saw panic in those eyes. His husband was scared. He usually was when John was angry, but not like this. "I did not like it. I cannot deny that it was interesting, but I did not like it. The fact that it was almost appalling is why I found it interesting."

"Really?" John asked. "You expect me to believe that kissing an incredibly attractive, intelligent man whom you obviously admire was appalling?"

"I am not lying," Sherlock said, clearly affronted. And John knew that he wasn't. No matter what else, Sherlock wouldn't lie to him.

John leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He took in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and held it for a moment. He let some of the anger fall away and let himself feel the pain, the sense of betrayal. He knew Sherlock wouldn't miss them.

He opened his eyes again and looked at Sherlock. His husband took a step towards him and reached out but didn't touch. He knew that wouldn't be welcome.

"John," he said just to say it and John looked away again.

"You kissed him, Sherlock. He might have initiated it, but you kissed him. And then you ranted about emotions and how useless they are."

"Not about you, John. I wasn't talking about you." He took another step forwards, the panic flaring again. John knew that Sherlock had finally realised that he wasn't just angry about the dinner.

John didn't reply. They just stood there silent for a long time.

Sherlock finally let out a sigh and John looked at him. He was looking away, a slight red tinge in his cheeks. He was embarrassed. That did surprise John.

"I," he started and stopped. He shuffled his weight from one foot to the other and looked at the floor. "I am not very knowledgeable in that area. You are my primary source of information on the subject. As you'll recall I only have one other -"

"Yes," John said waving his hand. "We don't need to discuss Sebastian as well." Sherlock nodded but didn't look at him.

"I was alarmed by the fact that it was different than with you. I was interested in the fact that something I enjoy so much could be so unenjoyable. I was just collecting additional information."

Grey eyes looked up and met hazel ones and John just shook his head.


	10. Chapter 10

"Collecting additional information?" John repeated.

"Yes. I don't see – "

"No, of course you don't see," John snapped. He covered his eyes with a hand, feeling a warning flash of pain when his fingers came in contact with the bruise. He dropped his hand away and sighed. "It probably seems perfectly logical to you. I mean, why should I be bothered that this young, gorgeous man finds –"

"Gorgeous?" Sherlock asked, cutting John off, looking genuinely puzzled.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice," John retorted. Sherlock folded his arms, giving John a long look.

"You find Jacob attractive and you're concerned about my reaction to him?"

"You kissed him!"

"John, _he _kissed_ me. _I would appreciate if you listened to our conversation because I have been telling you that I did not enjoy it and you clearly heard me tell him not to do so again. Since I was not aware that you were there, I could not have been saying this for your benefit."

John hesitated, feeling even more off balance.

"You don't find Jacob attractive?" he asked.

"Tall, dark haired, exceptionally intelligent? Tell me, John, of the two of us, whose type is that?"

John swallowed on a snarl, setting his jaw, which sent a stab of pain through his temple.

"Admittedly, it appears that I am Jacob's type – however, this is not his choice. It is mine. And I have already made it. Why should I change my mind?"

"Oh, I don't know," John said sarcastically. "Because of _additional information_?"

"It was more than sufficient to prove to me that I was not interested."

"See, that's the problem, Sherlock. If you have to kiss everyone you find fascinating to know they don't live up to me –"

"John. I did not kiss him. Nor would I have thought to initiate it. I realise you don't want to speak about Sebastian, but he was my only other comparison." John opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock shook his head. "And as unpleasant as my sexual encounter was with him, I did enjoy kissing him."

"Brilliant, now you tell me," John muttered. "Because I need more reason to feel like crap about myself right now."

"Would you stop insisting that I am doing this to upset you?" Sherlock snapped. "I did not ask for Jacob to kiss me, I did not want him to, and I insisted he never do so again! Yes, I enjoyed kissing Sebastian but that was it – and certainly nowhere near as much as I enjoy kissing you. I have wondered if other experiences might be comparable to you but I have never conducted any tests. When the opportunity was forced upon me, I took it. And I am very satisfied that you are a superior partner."

"Oh, well, I'm glad you're happy," John snapped.

"I am not happy," Sherlock said, folding his arms. "Because this has clearly made you angry. You got into a pub fight and you seem quite seriously injured despite Harry's assurances that this is not the case. You've already had one ASBO, John. I don't want to have to go to Mycroft to clear a second one."

John stared at him for a moment.

"I don't want you working with him anymore, Sherlock."

"Nor do I want to," Sherlock replied. "He's clearly demonstrated that he cannot control his emotions."

"Right," John muttered. "His unnecessary emotions."

Sherlock sighed, looking far more annoyed than John thought he had any right to.

"Yes, his emotional reactions were unnecessary! We were working, John. There was no need to interfere with that. He was clearly misguided and had ulterior motives for wanting to work with me. And he badly misjudged my interest in him – which, I should point out, you did not."

"For someone who's not interested in him, you've spent more time with him in the past two weeks than you have with me," John countered.

"Interested in working with him, yes. He's highly intelligent and can get me access to bodies for continued experimentation."

John sighed and turned away, resting his elbows on the counter, pressing his hands very carefully against his face.

"If you would like me to be at home –"

"Sherlock, I want you to want to be at home," John sighed. "And I want you to understand the difference."

There was a long moment of silence and John raised his head to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Then I will be at home in the evenings," he replied. John closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"And what happens when you decide you need more additional data to compare to me?"

Sherlock looked surprised and John felt a flash of irritation.

"I do not," he said. "I'm entirely satisfied that I do not want to be with anyone else."

John held Sherlock's gaze silently, long enough for discomfort to crease the detective's features and darken his grey eyes.

"Then you're going to have to prove that to me," he said.


	11. Chapter 11

John dug his mobile out of his coat pocket as he turned the corner onto Baker Street. He'd got off the tube a station early because of the continuous starting and stopping from delays. Sometimes the surface roads really were faster.

"Hello," he said , expecting to hear Sherlock but only mildly surprised when Harry's voice answered.

"I was just calling to see how you are feeling," she said and John rolled his eyes. It had been a week since he called his sister to pick him up at the hospital after he saw Jacob and Sherlock kissing. She'd called him several times since then, asking how he was and how he and Sherlock were doing.

He didn't have an answer for her on the last part. He still wasn't certain himself.

"I'm fine. Swelling is down, stitches have healed up nicely. Same as yesterday. Sherlock is fine, he's been home every night since the incident. Same as yesterday. No, things aren't completely back to normal yet. It's still an issue with me and not him. Same as yesterday. I'd explain but since you say 'ew' every time I talk about sex, I'll simply say it hasn't happened yet. And really, Harry, I certainly don't mind hearing from you or talking with you but we didn't speak this often when we lived in the same house. I'm doing all right, honestly. I'd tell you if I wasn't."

He heard her sigh on the other end and knew that she too was rolling her eyes. "Fine," she snapped. "I'll back off. I'm just worried about you. I've never seen you quite that upset and I'm not exactly thrilled about the situation. The bastard broke into my flat if you'll remember."

John smiled despite himself. Harry had been under the impression that her flat was almost impenetrable and Sherlock had shattered that illusion. She'd called in a securities firm to install an alarm system and had a serious talk with the management of the building about the front door locks. The little brother in John found the whole thing just a bit too amusing. "I apologised for that," he said spotting his doorway in the distance. "And I'd make him apologise too if you'd consent to speak to him."

"No," she said quickly. "It isn't necessary." John almost laughed - almost. Harry never appreciated laughter at her expense. "I'm going to Wellow this weekend so I won't be home. If you end up in a pub fight you'll have to call your husband. Or better yet his brother - as he seems to have magical powers over ASBOs. "

"Have a good time," John said instead of letting her jabs hit home. He had no intention of fighting with his sister today. He was still dealing with the remnants of the fight with his husband. And Jacob. He was struggling to think of Sherlock and not think of Jacob and their lips touching. He wasn't having much success. "Be safe and I'll talk to you soon."

"Bye," she said and rang off. He just looked at his phone and shook his head. Sometimes it was so easy with Harry and sometimes it was too hard.

He opened the front door and breathed in the familiar scent. He could tell Mrs. Hudson was making lasagna for dinner which meant that she'd give them leftovers tomorrow. He liked that idea - less cooking for him over the weekend. It wasn't as good as Angelo's but still good.

He climbed up the steps and the relieved feeling about being home started to dissipate. He struggled to hold on to it, he didn't want to focus on this anymore. He wanted to be able to forget.

He couldn't, not yet, and nobody was more disappointed by this than Sherlock. They'd been together every evening since and John had tried desperately to fake it. He couldn't fool Sherlock though, not about this. He didn't know what it was that gave him away, but he suspected it was stiffening in his body or the way his lips moved in a kiss. But Sherlock would always pull away and John would see a mix of emotions in the grey eyes. Sometimes he was annoyed, sometimes he was angry, mostly he'd frown and just shake his head. John didn't know what to say, he didn't know what to tell him. Sherlock had done everything right since then. Everything. It was John's problem at this point.

That morning as Sherlock pulled away in the shower, he'd cupped John's face. John had tightened his fingers on Sherlock's forearms. John wanted Sherlock to know that he wanted to be able to. John wanted to be able to more than anything. Sherlock had just smiled at him, shook his head in a moment of defeat, and said: "I love you, John, more than anything. Remember that." It had made John's chest ache.

John sighed as he opened the door and prepared to face Sherlock. He pushed it a few inches and met resistance. He pushed harder and glanced down seeing green sticks poking underneath the door. He frowned, confused, until a moment later one of the sticks had a leaf.

_Flowers, _he thought as he shoved against the door enough to squeeze inside. He took a step and felt something under his shoe. He looked down again. More flowers. He looked around the room and corrected his realization. They weren't just flowers; his flat had become a garden while he was away.

The floor was covered wall-to-wall with flowers strewn about the floor. He could immediately identify roses, carnations, and tulips among them. He glanced at the stairs and there was a giant arrangement on each step. Huge bouquets of lilies and irises and flowers John couldn't immediately recognise.

_It looks like a florist's blew up_, he thought, _Or a funeral parlour_.

He took a couple of tentative steps towards the living room, seeing more arrangements on every available surface. He started kicking his feet as he walked, flowers flying in the air as he entered the room. He took his coat off and swiped a collection of tulips off the couch and onto the floor so he could set it down.

"Sherlock!" he called and turned towards the kitchen just as his husband's voice called out:

"Shit!"

John continued towards the kitchen, pushing the flowers out of the way with his feet as he did so. He didn't like the idea of stepping on them. As he passed his chair he saw a pile of greeting cards. He picked them up and glanced through them. Each one had his name on it.

"Sherlo…," he trailed off as he looked up to see his husband standing in the kitchen, completely naked and covered with some brown substance. "What in the hell?" he said instead.

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. He gestured towards some three tiered metal concoction in the middle of the table. "It doesn't work. I was trying to surprise you and it doesn't work."

"What is it?" John asked, seeing more of the brown substance around the metal and on the table. "And what is all of this?" He swung his arm around gesturing to the flowers, but his eyes stopped moving when they landed on a small fish bowl on the counter with what looked to be a dozen oysters piled inside. He shook his head; there were bigger things.

Sherlock shook his head and crossed his arms. He looked at the floor and was quiet.

"Sherlock," John said. "What is all of this? An experiment?"

Sherlock's head snapped up at that. "No!" he exclaimed. A flash of anger at what was apparently interpreted as an accusation crossed his features, then faded away. He sighed and dropped his arms. "I don't want you to be upset with me anymore. I've been home every evening. I took you to dinner. I did chores. I miss you. I was unaware of what else to do so I researched ways to apologise online."

John groaned.

"I combined several of the ideas I found there and was trying to offer you a grand apologetic gesture but the chocolate fountain will not work."

So it was chocolate covering his husband's body, that realisation stirred something in John's stomach. It was almost a foreign feeling after so long and it surprised him. And it felt good - very, _very_ good.

"The flowers?" he asked. Sherlock crossed his arms again. John smiled, noticing a dab of chocolate on Sherlock's cheek right next to his nose. He took a step forward.

"A man online disappointed his wife by forgetting to paint the garage door. He painted the door and bought her flowers, including extras to put a few loose individual ones around the house."

John took another step. "I assume he was not specific about quantity." Sherlock shook his head. "And the cards?" John held out the collection that was still in his hand.

"I could not decide which one displayed the most appropriate sentiment." John nodded setting them on the counter.

"And the fountain?"

"Many sites suggested that chocolate covered edibles are an aphrodisiac, along with the oysters," Sherlock said, nodding at the fish bowl.

John smiled, taking another step, feeling flowers crush under his feet. He wanted to see if Sherlock was wearing shoes, but the idea of looking away from that chocolate spot on his cheek just seemed wrong.

"You know that we're supposed to eat the oysters, right?" Sherlock's body stiffened and John knew that he didn't know that. He risked a glance into the grey eyes and saw more disappointment there. Clearly Sherlock though he'd done something else wrong. "And you are naked because?"

Another step - one more and he'd be able to touch Sherlock.

"Sites suggested that it might be stimulating to come home to one's spouse unclothed."

John chuckled at that taking the final step he reached up. Sherlock looked surprised as John's fingers settled in dark curls and began pulling his head down. John took another step, pushing his body into Sherlock's and feeling the crossed arms press into his chest. He met the grey eyes again and offered his husband a quick smile before he darted his tongue out to lick the chocolate spot off his cheek.

He pulled back. "I'm pretty sure that you can skip the rest of this next time and just cover yourself in chocolate."

He saw the flash in the grey eyes and a moment later their lips met. Sherlock's hand was warm and sticky as he brought it up to rest on John's cheek. John pulled out of the kiss and turned his head to start licking chocolate off his husband's palm.

"Thank god, finally," Sherlock mumbled as he pulled his hand away. Their eyes locked again as Sherlock bent down and John felt the warm tongue lick a chocolate spot off the corner of his mouth.


End file.
